"No, no! Wait a little; wait till—Mr. Fairbanks gets home."
"What's he got to do with it?"
"Eve says—he'll take your name out of it."
"My name wasn't in the paper."
"Eve said—if she really meant to—go on with it—she could name some one else—if she needed to."
"That's just like Eve to say that." Martha left the room with dignity.
And Emily sat on her bed, too stunned to change her position. All her life her lazy body had turned away from emotional necessities. She had never been able to get really angry without feeling physically exhausted afterwards. And now she couldn't think clearly. She was conscious only of horror—of the pain of fear. Martha wasn't going to be happy. Martha was going to suffer over this. Martha was running eagerly, irrevocably, into the arms of tragedy. Surely this couldn't have happened to HER child—to that good little, sweet, dear child who had always been just pure joy. She sat there crying out against the truth—she sat there, not moving—groping about—-praying to Fate.
She sat there till Martha came in again, fresh and beautiful from her bath. She gave a little cry of protest, catching sight of her mother.
"Don't sit there that way. Don't look that way, mammie. The world isn't coming to an end because of any old dirty newspaper." She stroked her mother's head entreatingly. And then she said—the foolish child—"It's really beginning, if you look at it right." Again her voice quivered with its ecstasy. She stood trying to coax Emily. "You lie down awhile, mother. And go and wash your face. Shall I bring you some water? Do you mind, mammie, if I go and play golf?"
"Yes, I do. Wait, Martha, until Mr. Fairbanks comes back—until it's settled."